


The Leaves Unfold

by leopardchic79



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Internal Conflict, Missing Scene, Post-Canon, not really gleb/anya, very brief thought of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 11:44:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13903314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopardchic79/pseuds/leopardchic79
Summary: A less dramatic goodbye, and the promise of a lie.  Just a small, missing scene post "Still/The Neva Flows (reprise)."





	The Leaves Unfold

It was the Seine that finally broke him. The sound of the flowing water broke through the cold numbness he’d felt since he’d stumbled away from her grandmother’s flat. It didn’t sound anything like the Neva. 

He leaned against the bridge’s railing and stared down into the flowing water. Everything was…wrong. The water looked warm and inviting, but it was a lie. The Seine would drown him just as easily. At least the Neva had the decency to look cold, uninviting and deadly. 

There were voices around him, happy chatter mainly of couples and passersby and tourists. Paris seemed to be teeming with…happiness. Shining baubles and shallow pleasures. Life and love and _riches_. 

He slipped away from the bridge and down the stairs to the bank below. Closer to the flowing water and away from the suffocating prattle. 

He had failed, and yet his conscience felt strangely clear. It didn’t help though; the failure was worse. Failed his party, his father’s memory, his country. As long as _she_ lived, the Romanovs lived on…he’d failed to put an end to their line. Still… 

_“Do it. And I will be with my parents, and my brother and sisters in that cellar in Ekaterinburg all over again!”_

Her eyes – those blue, Romanov eyes – had flashed with fury and grief. The family she’d only just remembered…he’d forced her to relive their deaths. In turn, she’d forced him to face the same. The monarchy may have been selfish, arrogant and uncaring towards the common man. Perhaps their death had been inevitable and served a greater good. 

But the only fault of their children was being born into it. Their deaths had the ring of senseless murder to them. And Gleb finally understood his father’s shame. 

He dropped down and sat beside the river, feeling lost. For the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t sure of his purpose or what he should do next. 

All he had wanted to do was live up to his father, make him proud. He believed fiercely in the revolution, in a new world order for Russia that left everyone equal. And he believed in following his orders. How else was the revolution to succeed? 

But she had…bewitched him somehow. First, he’d been struck by her blue eyes, her seeming vulnerability when he’d met her on the street. And from there he’d wanted nothing but to protect her, to warn her away from the game she was playing at pretending to be the Grand Duchess. 

Except, she _was_ Anastasia. He believed that now without a doubt. He hadn’t wanted to…but her conviction, her pride, her… _eyes_. She was Anastasia, and she was strong all on her own…and still he wanted to protect her. 

Or kill her. But he hadn’t been able to do that. 

For the first time, he suddenly believed that his mother had been right. Maybe his father really had been ashamed of what he’d done. 

Tired and confused, he shook his head and stared down at the flowing water. It looked colder all of the sudden, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to slip quietly underneath the surface. 

“Are you going back to Russia?” 

Startled, he looked up sharply and sucked in a quick breath. She had followed him. And she was alone. 

She had changed out of her brilliant, red ball gown into a simpler, less conspicuous dress. Yet, she still looked every bit the princess that she was. Regal in the way she stood, looking down at him. But her eyes were…kind. 

Gleb shook his head. “I don’t know. I failed to follow orders.” 

“Is that all your life is worth to the revolution?” she asked, voice sharp. 

“It would’ve been worth even less to royalty,” he replied, eyes flashing with anger. No matter his confusion and uncertainty over his own actions, his own _feelings_ …he still believed fiercely in his cause. 

But Anya’s eyes softened and she offered him her hand. He stared at it for a long time, before accepting and pulling himself to his feet. She may be her father’s daughter, but she wasn’t exactly part of the nobility. Not yet anyway. He’d never admit the way he shivered slightly at the touch of her skin. 

He felt less unequal, standing in front of her than sitting at her feet, but more vulnerable in some ways. And her eyes were still difficult to meet. 

She let go of his hand and crossed her arms over her chest. He didn’t miss the way she kept a few steps away from him. Smart. “You’ll go back,” she murmured. “I don’t see you going anywhere else.” 

He wasn’t so sure…wasn’t so sure he could face anyone at home. They would probably be able to read the failure all over his face. But he simply shrugged and looked over at the river again. “Maybe I’ll stay here.” 

She laughed. “Gleb Vaganov. Parisian?” 

He scowled at her. His gun was cold against the small of his back. The thought crossed his mind to pull it out now. There were people around, yes, but he could make it quick. Disappear into the night, and return to Russia with a successful report. 

But he knew he wouldn’t. She eyed him carefully – she knew too. 

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” he answered finally, voice carefully devoid of feeling. But his words were a sad, cutting truth, making his heart ache. 

She stepped a little closer and shook her head. “You do,” she answered softly. This time her voice was warm. When he gained enough courage to meet her eyes again, he found that they were too. 

She smiled softly, and he felt his heart ache for a different reason. He held her gaze for a few moments, lost suddenly. Paris sparkled around them, and maybe in some other time or world, they could walk away, hand in hand along the banks of the Seine. 

Instead, he returned her smile sadly and shook his head again. “I _will_ go back,” he declared softly. Determined suddenly, he hardened his gaze and stood up straighter. “Your majesty,” he added with no little amount of disdain. It was for the title, not for her. 

Sighing, she looked down in defeat for a moment, before drawing herself up and looking at him in a way that could only be described as…royally. “What will you tell them?” 

He paused for a moment, unsure, and then answered with the only thing he could. It would kill him, but he’d lie. For her. His heart wouldn’t allow anything else. “That there was never an Anastasia. That she was all a dream. A rumor.” 

“A dead princess,” she added, blue eyes icy for a moment. But she studied him carefully, and then finally nodded. “I suppose that’s for the best.” 

“I can’t promise that they won’t send someone else,” he answered. “If you let your grandmother announce you to the world…” 

“They’ll know you lied,” she finished for him. She looked worried. 

Eyes widening, he balked at her perception. She was worried for _him_. Guilt was already weighing on him heavily – from more than one direction – and he hadn’t expected her…concern. He hadn’t thought much for his own fate – there was definitely a big part of him that thought he deserved punishment for betraying the revolution – but he was mainly trying to warn her of the dangers of being too public…for her own sake. 

He shrugged. “They might.” 

She looked sad, and he hated to think that it was because of him. He’d almost killed her…he didn’t really deserve her pity. But there were other emotions dancing across her face – none of which he pretended he could understand – until she settled on resolve. 

“Well, I’ve not yet decided my future,” she answered finally. “But I will not give up my grandmother, my _family_ , now that I have it.” Her face shown with a fierce conviction that echoed in her voice. 

Gleb smiled a little in reply. He understood; he missed his parents terribly, and he knew well how powerful a force the closeness of family could be. He also knew that family, to her, was not simply her grandmother. It was shared memories and a painful past. It was finally having a history again. It was a future with the boy who had helped her find all of it. He’d been watching her carefully after all. But it was time to stop. 

“I need to go,” he said, voice rough. The sudden desire to stay and disappear into Paris was stronger than he would’ve liked. Even if he never saw her again, he’d be…close. Except Russia called, and despite his heavy heart, he _missed_ home. 

She stepped closer and he felt his heart pound as she reached out and let her fingers slip gently over his cheek. He could barely breathe. “Farewell then, Gleb. I wish you long life.” 

Swallowing hard, he nodded to her – the smallest and briefest bow he could allow himself – and then forced himself to step back, out of reach of her intoxicating touch. “And to you…princess,” he murmured. He said the title without a hint of disdain, and was rewarded with her smile. He wouldn’t soon forget it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Anastasia on Broadway in January, and have been listening to the cast album pretty much nonstop ever since. When I fall for a musical, I fall hard! (Not to mention how much I loved the movie when I was younger!) Anyway, I absolutely adore Anya/Dmitry, but Gleb makes my heart hurt with all of his conflict and angst. So here we are! (I also blame Ramin Karimloo.)


End file.
